David Grace - The Accidental Magician

Room 204 was bigger than I had expected with a bank of large windows overlooking the front lawn. Four leather club chairs surrounded a mahogany conference table. Armed with a cup of coffee, I was about to take the seat at the head of the table when two of my senior staff entered. The woman, fortyish, plump, with a tangled halo of reddish-brown hair, paused in mid-sentence when she me then quickly extended her hand.

"Dr. Westbrook? Dr. Margaret Riles. I guess you could call me your deputy."

"Pleased to meet you." I looked at Riles' companion, a tall, thin man, all planes and angles.

"Dr. Harold Gentry," he replied, a nervous grimace stretching his lips.

"Dr. Gentry." I shook Gentry's hand, the long, boney fingers cold and limp. "And your position?"

"Uhh, I'm the senior Clinical Psychiatrist. I supervise treatment teams one and two. Margaret handles three and four and any forensic psychiatric issues."

"Forensic?"

Riles gave me a nervous smile. "Sometimes we accept patients under special arrangement with the courts."

"Wealthy serial killers?" I asked with a smile.

"Occasionally."

"I was joking," I replied, surprised.

"The public institutions are overcrowded and if the patient is willing to pay the cost for a private facility, the government is usually more than willing to give him to us."

"I've never heard of such a thing."

"There are only eight institutions accredited by the U.S. Bureau of Prisons to participate in the program. We're the only one on the eastern seaboard."

"Do we have any, ahh, transferees right now?" I picked up my blue file. "I didn't see anything in here…" my voice trailed off as I flipped through the pages.

"Actually," Gentry cut in, fingering his black plastic glasses, "there are two. Merle Turpin, a serial rapist from South Carolina and Gerald Fournier, a spree killer from Philadelphia."

"I didn't even know we had a locked facility."

"It's occupies a large part of the third floor," Riles said, glancing over her left shoulder.

Uneasily I looked from face to face then closed the blue file. "I see that I have a lot to learn about Wheaton Fields. Well, let's-"

The door banged open and a trim, red-haired man bustled into the room.

"Sorry I'm late. Got hung up with a patient." The newcomer stuck out his hand. "Russ Mitchell. I'm your token Ph.D. Mostly, I supervise the non-medical staff and help out with overloads on day-to-day counseling and treatment emergencies." Perfect teeth, I thought as I stared at Mitchell's smiling, freckled face.

"No problem, we were just getting started." Mitchell took the chair at the end of the table. "I don't know how much you know about me…"

"Practically nothing," Mitchell cut in, then laughed. "Sorry, I thought that was a question. Please, go ahead."

"As I was saying, I did my undergraduate work at U.C.L.A. and got my medical degree from Duke. The Army paid for my education in exchange for a service commitment. For the past four years I served as the Chief of Psychiatric Services at the Walson Clinic at Fort Dix, New Jersey. About two months ago I resigned my commission-"

"And what was that?"

"What was what, Dr. Mitchell?"

"Call me Russ. What was your rank when you resigned?"

"Major.-"

"Why'd you leave?"

I clenched his jaw and took a breath. "Personal reasons," I answered in a flat tone. Mitchell's face reacquired its idiot smile.

"Sure, none of our business, I guess."

"What was your normal schedule with Dr. Lang?" I asked Riles, pointedly turning away from Russ Mitchell.

"Ahhh, well, as Dr. Gentry mentioned, each of us runs two treatment teams which each consist of a psychiatrist or psychologist, a nurse, and an activities coordinator or a recreational therapist. Each team has between ten and twenty patients and meets with each patient between one and two hours per week. I also have four psychologists, including Russ, and fifteen licensed therapist-drug counselors who follow up with counseling and group therapy sessions. About half of our patients attend from one to three group sessions per week, plus their regular team interviews, plus extra counseling as needed.

"Russ generally oversees the psychologists and Dr. Gentry oversees the therapists. They report to me and all four of us get together every Wednesday morning. I give you a separate weekly report every Friday afternoon. You meet with Mr. Clanton, the Executive Director, every Monday afternoon. Each treatment team turns in its weekly notes by close of business on Friday and you review them before our Wednesday meeting."

"And the rest of the time?"

"Well, Dr. Lang pretty much let us do our jobs, though he would drop into group or team meetings from time to time. Naturally, we brought any problems or administrative issues to him."

I nodded and closed my worn blue file.

"Is there anything special that I need to be concerned about?"

Riles and Gentry quickly glanced at each other then back to me.

"Not a thing," Riles said.

"We're good."

"Dr. Mitchell?"

"Smooth as--", The phone at the edge of the table suddenly issued a series of agitated trills.

I froze for an instant then grabbed the receiver. "Westbrook… What – where?… Yes, I'll be right there." The plastic handset clattered as I threw it down. "Dr. Riles, would you lead the way to East 207? Apparently patient has knocked out an orderly and barricaded himself in Dr. Metrano's office."

Before I could take a step toward the door Russ Mitchell pulled out his cell phone and hit the speed dial.

"Russ-"

Mitchell held up his hand.

"This is Dr. Mitchell. We've got an incident. Cut off all the phones in the east wing, right now." The cell closed with a snap. "It's protocol," Mitchell explained. "The policy is to prevent an agitated patient from embarrassing the hospital with calls to talk-radio programs or threats to shoot the governor."

"Makes sense to me," I agreed. "Okay, let's find out what's going on." Riles gave Mitchell a quick glance then headed out the door.